RED
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: Series of drabbles, each based on a song from Taylor Swift's album "Red." Jo/Fritz, Modern AU.
1. State of Grace

State of Grace

 _And I never saw you coming…_

She tumbles into his office quite by mistake one day when looking for Mrs. Kirk.

"Oh!" she says, gawking at the funny looking man in an old button up sitting at a battered oak desk. "I—I'm sorry—I was looking for—"

"Mees Kirk," he finishes, smiling not unkindly. He has an accent she could spread on toast. "Yes, I have been hearing."

Her neck catches fire, and the blaze spreads up to her cheeks.

"I-I'm so sorry," she stammers. "I-I had no idea…"

But he laughs.

"No, do not apologize. I haf much love for the young people making noise. It makes a house all alive, so?"

"So," she breathes. (How _old_ is this guy? He doesn't look above 40…)

"So," he says. "You are the Mees Marsch I haf been hearing of, then?"

"The same," she grins, sinking into an impromptu bow. "But just call me Jo. I hate being called 'Miss March.'"

"Ah," he laughs. "So Jo, then. Such a quick, breathing name. It suits you."

She can feel herself grinning all over her face, and she doesn't even know why; something about his funny German voice and his pen-marked face and his bizarre compliments is just infectiously funny.

"Well, what do you go by?"

He stands up, taking her hand in his and bowing over it—whether seriously or not, she can't quite tell.

"They call me Old Fritz in this house," he smiles. "It is good meeting you, Mees—Jo."

"Back at you," she says lightly. "I'll leave you to work—you haven't seen Mrs. Kirk by any chance, have you?"

"I haf not," he says. "I would check the kitchen."

"Ah—the kitchen! Of course! Thanks, Fritz!"

And as she flies out the door and down the steps (Marmee always said she was like a whirlwind), she can hear him laughing.

-888888-

Over the next few weeks, their relationship is one of constant bewilderment; they seem to pop out at each other from the oddest places.

"Good gravy!" she cries, nearly slamming into him one morning on her way to breakfast. "Sorry, Friedrich," (for by now she knows his real name) "I didn't see you there."

"Do not be concerned, Jo," he chuckles. "I haf need of a waking-up call now and then, I'm sure."

And then:

"What were you thinking of that so abstracted you, eef you do not mind telling me?"

"Oh, nothing important—I just thought of the most perfect scene for a story I'm writing. It's going to be a smasher."

"Ah," he smiles. "You must tell me, then. I haf not read a—how do you say—a smasher in some time."

"Well, see, I was just thinking…"

-888888-

"Jo?"

She looks up, grinning now, from her bored contemplation of the interior of her red Solo cup.

"Friedrich! What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was invited by Mees Kirk," he grimaces. "This is the Christmas party, so?"

"So," she laughs. "Quite a terrible one, too, I think. Isn't it awful? I haven't been this bored since Marmee used to make me sit with Aunt March."

"It is not ideal," he admits. "But it will be better now that I have found you. Come, Jo—I haf just read something in Hegel I want your opinion of."

And they're on their third turn 'round the room, pausing for just a moment to parse something out between them, when there's a general wave of laughter and then a hush, jolting them both out of their discussion.

"What the devil's going—"

But she stops, because she knows now. (Why does this always happen to _her_?)

"Ah," says the Professor absently, glancing up. "Mistletoe."

And then he puts one hand on her waist and the other on her jaw, guiding her face to his, and before she can quite get a handle on things she's kissing Fritz and it's not anything like she expected and she hardly knows where to look when it's done.

And all she can think, gawking at him with her mouth somewhat open, is that she never never never saw it coming.


	2. Red

RED

 _Loving him was red._

It all comes back in echoes and disjoints, in elbows and corners and pieces.

(The first time he slipped his arm around her, she almost fell down the steps, and Mrs. Kirk was in a flutter for an hour over whether the tile was too slick.)

She sits sometimes and scrolls through her contacts—pauses, over and over, on his name.

 _Fritz_.

"No, Marmee—it's nothing. I'll be fine."

("What are ya looking at, Professor?" she teases one day when she catches him staring as she lets her hair down. He swallows, flushing.

"Ah—I was…ah…"

"Kantian metaphysics, I imagine?" she says, smirking. He nods.

"Ah, yes…yes…"

But she laughs, letting her fingers slip into his hair; he catches his breath.

"You're an awful liar, _Professor_ ," she murmurs, pulling his face down.)

"Oh, don't fret over me like that, Amy," she says irritably when Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence come to visit. "I'm fine."

("Isn't it awful?" she says once when they're lounging in a nearby coffee shop. "Being in love, I mean."

Friedrich rumples his untidy hair and then smiles.

"Oh…I haf rather the fondness for it, Jo."

"That's because you're so German," she retorts, wrinkling her nose at him. "But even you can admit it's damn inconvenient—take the other day in Mrs. Kirk's jam closet, for instance."

He grins.

"Ach, yes—we had almost to—ahhh—how to say—recompense her for broken property, yes?")

"Jo," Meg says sternly at Christmas. "You _have_ been crying. Don't try and deny it."

("Don't go," she protests as the clock flashes 2:30 AM. He frowns at her for a moment, trying to be stern before he sinks back onto the bed, pulling her into his arm.

"There will be talking, Jo."

"Oh, let them talk," she mumbles, burrowing into his side. "Who cares what the lady on the first floor thinks?")

She develops a bad habit of slouching by her bedroom window and thinking in ugly circles—letting all the pieces crowd over her, letting all the echoes play on a loop in her mind.

("I—I just have to," she says, not looking at him. She doesn't have to; she knows him, and the quiet way he speaks tells her she's smashed his heart.

"Jo—I—I don't understand…"

"I can't—not now. Not with Beth. Friedrich, I—I can't. She's going to _die_.")

She develops an even worse habit of sobbing, silently, shakingly, into her pillow—sobbing and shivering and wishing for Beth.

(Or for him.)

("Come back to me, Jo," he said softly, as she was loading her battered suitcase into her car. "I haf hope…I…will you come back?"

She looked at him with a pale, tired, tear-streaked face and tried to hold it together.

"I—I dunno, Friedrich.")

It all comes back in twists and screams and echoes—all in shadows and contrasts and all in bright, burning, boiling red.


	3. Treacherous

TREACHEROUS

 _This daydream is dangerous…_

He really thinks he should know better by now.

At this point, his own folly is very much inexcusable…to think such things (such awful, bewildering things) about Mees Marsch, about _Jo_ , for heaven's sake, is almost too much.

"Bad laundry day, Fritz?" says Jo lightly, coming into the room like a lovely, wild-haired tornado. He tries to catch his breath, to remember what she just said.

(Ach, he's such a fool; he was too busy watching the light on her hair…)

"Ah…."

She points to his socks, which are indeed not well matched. Prut. What is it Mees Kirk always says about not dressing in the dark?

"Oh," he hears himself say. He sounds the fool. "Yes…I…I am not good at uh…at keeping the clothes straight."

"I see that," smiles Jo. And then, with her characteristic brusqueness:

"Friedrich, what on earth have you been doing? You've got pen ink all down your cheek."

(Why does this always seem to happen with _her_?)

"Oh," he says again. "I…I ah…"

But Jo is not a stumbler as he is, and she is very suddenly very close, reaching up to wipe the black streaks. He tries his best to breathe.

(Ach, his treacherous heart; if only it would quiet down!)

"How did you get ink _here_?" scolds Jo, slipping her sweatshirt over her head (he sees a peek of her flat brown stomach and he must recall himself) and scrubbing at his cheek with the sleeve. His tongue does not cooperate.

"Ah…"

"For pity's sake, Fritz," sighs Jo, stepping back just a half-step to appreciate (as he is) her handiwork. "Grading papers again?"

"Ah…I…"

"Wait," she says, leaning in. Her fingers run lightly over his cheek; his eyelids flutter. "Let's see—what's that?"

(Mein Gott, how is he to handle such torments!)

"What is what?" he breathes, taking care not to move. (He knows not whether he can trust his own body.)

"Something here—on your cheekbone—looks like a smudge of something."

"Oh," he says. "I-I do not recall…"

And then her fingertip traces along the dirt mark, and he cannot be silent any longer, and he nearly groans:

" _Jo…_ "

Jo freezes, looking at him with a wild freshness in her tawny cheeks; he stares back, hating his own stupidity, his tactlessness…

Surely she would not like this…no, she would not…Jo was not one to humor an old man. She would be firm and clear. She would not let such absurd daydreams (for many of his daydreams had been _very_ absurd) continue.

"Oh," she breathes. Then, as a thousand futile apologies clamor on his tongue:

"Why didn't you _tell_ me, you dolt?"

"I-I haf to go," he mumbles, resolving to go to his room and vigorously scrub the incident from his memory. "I—I make the apologies, Jo…"

But Jo laughs—he so loves the sound—and, before he can move, stands on tiptoe and kisses his cheek.

"I'll see you around, Professor," she says, seeming to suddenly realize what she has done and bolting out the door. So he stands there, light-headed and bewildered, wondering what in Heaven has just happened.


	4. I Knew You Were Trouble

I KNEW YOU WERE TROUBLE

 _So shame on me, now…_

He cannot but think he's had this coming.

From the moment she tumbled into his room, he must have known—must have seen that it couldn't last, that she couldn't last. How could he not, after all—how could anyone not?

(It was so obvious, after all….only an old fool like himself could have missed it…)

He sighs, shaking his head. No—now is not the time for the obvious questions, for the self pity. That is all past—she is all past. (Isn't she?) Opening a book, he tries to enjoy Shakespeare.

"Prut!" He shoves the book aside—nearly tosses it onto his bed. He puts his head in his hands, trying vigorously not to think.

"I am useless," he mutters. "I am a—how to say—good for nothing. I haf done no good work since…since…"

But he knows the last time he's done real work, and he doesn't finish. (What is the point of stirring up old wounds?)

"It is mine, this fault," he tells himself. "All mine. I—I had the foolish hopes. I should have known."

He glances around the room—sees a particular picture huddled at the back of his desk and slams it face down.

"What use does a young woman with much life in her have for an old Professor?" he says, talking to the bureau, to an errant pair of socks by turn. "None! None, I say."

(Her hands tangle in his hair, sliding up his neck, and he swallows and thinks that oh, this Mees Marsch is trouble…)

"What does a young woman want with an old man? What life can she share with him? None! That is all—it is so. None."

He paces, his head falling again into his hands. He shuts his eyes against the memories, the troublesome, treacherous memories…

("Good Lord," she murmurs, leaning her head against his chest. "Your heart's going like crazy, Fritz."

"So," he agrees, flushing. "I-I haf a little fear."

"Fear for what?"

He smiles ruefully, leaning his cheek against her hair.

"Fear that this might end, my Jo.")

He knew, of course, that it could not be—he must have known even as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him (heavenly thought), her hands in his hair, that it could not be.

"What is there that compels her to stay?" he asks the mirror, scolding himself. "What is there for her to stay? There is nothing—nothing!"

And then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. It has been such a long winter.

"Nothing to make her stay," he murmurs. "Nothing to make her stay—but ach! If only she had."


	5. All Too Well

ALL TOO WELL

 _I remember it all too well…_

She can't seem to forget it—any of it.

She does housework with a vengeance, tying a bandana around her hair and scrubbing with a personal vendetta against the grime and dirt—but even amidst the welter and sweat, it still finds her.

("Here," he said. "Let me help with the sweeping. It is not good for the lovely ones to do all the work."

"You're such a European," she retorted, laughing and trying to be stern as he took the broom from her. "I'm absolutely capable of doing the sweeping, y'know."

He grinned.

"Ah," he said. "That is where we agree, mein Jo. I haf no doubt that you are capable of doing anything.")

She rolls up her sleeves and scrubs till her nails are ragged at the bathtub, the sink, but even the grueling repetition doesn't cleanse her. Even up to her elbows in Lysol and Ajax, she remembers—remembers that he was reading _Tristan and Isolde_ the first time she (in the hurricane hold of a hopeless crush) "accidentally" barged into his room. Remembers the first time he took her to a tiny bookstore downtown in his old Jalopy with the windows stuck halfway down.

("How _old_ is this car, Friedrich?"

He snorted.

"Ach, do not tease, Mees Marsch. I haf seen your—how do you say—your Civic.")

She blinks hard; her wrists ache, but she scrubs harder, testing herself.

-88888888-

"Whatever happened to that Professor you used to talk about?" Marmee asked yesterday, looking at her thoughtfully. She made sure to absorb herself in her cup of tea.

"Oh—I dunno. We sort of lost touch when I left for—for Beth."

She couldn't help the tremor that comes into her voice at Beth's name; Marmee came behind her, resting her head on her shoulder.

"Jo, it's alright," she murmured. "It's been eight months—Beth wouldn't want you to give up your friends for her memory. Talk to the Professor—he seemed to make you happy."

"I can't," she choked, looking hard out the window. "Marmee, I—I can't."

"Why not?"

But she shook her head, setting down the tea and walking quickly into the hall.

"Jo—Jo, sweetheart…"

-888888-

He visits the house once—about nine months after Beth's funeral.

"Jo!" calls Marmee up the steps. "Jo, a friend of yours is here!"

"I haven't got any friends," she replies, only half joking. Marmee clucks her tongue reprovingly.

"Jo, come see. It's your friend the Professor. He says he's here because of some business he has with your father, but I told him you were here, and he said he'd like to see you if you weren't busy."

 _The Professor_ —she sits bolt upright, her stomach heaving up into her throat. He wants to see her—no, he can't. He can't possibly. Not after…

"I _am_ busy," she says, struggling to be cool and collected. Prim, like Amy.

" _Jo!"_

When Marmee takes that tone, she knows that things are serious; so, sulky and tear-stained and with hair tumbling out of its makeshift bun, she makes her way carefully down the steps, determined not to look at anything.

But it's no use—for she knows from the moment she hears the sharp intake of breath that he's there—that he's there and that he remembers.

"Hullo, Professor," she says dully, sticking a hand in what might be his general direction. His fingers gingerly take hers, moving them up and down once.

"Hello, Mees Marsch," he says. "It has—it has been some time."

"Yeah," she mutters, accidentally meeting his eyes. (That's her first big mistake.)

"You—you haf a lovely home," he murmurs. She shrugs.

"Thank you, Friedrich."

She's forgotten to call him Professor, and he doesn't breathe for a moment, and she knows (she just knows) that he's thinking of the way she used to laugh his name into his coat, burrowing her nose into his chest.

(She wonders, for a fresh, painful moment, if he still has the old university sweatshirt she lost in his car.)

"Of course," he says, and he clears his throat a little shakily, and she knows: knows that he's thinking about all the times they argued about Heidegger and Hegel and Aristotle and Aquinas till two in the morning, knows he's seeing (as if it were right in front of him) the wind pulling her hair in wild tangles out the open car window, knows he's thinking and seeing and hearing it all over again on repeat—thinking and seeing and hearing it all over again and all too well.


	6. 22

22

 _It feels like one of those nights…_

It just feels like one of those nights.

That's the only way she can describe it, sitting in the torn up passenger's seat of his beat up car. It's the only thing she can think of as she watches the street gape and fade before them, watches the numbers on the dashboard clock reflect a garish red on his coat.

It just feels like one of those nights.

"So," he smiles. "What is the plan, Jo?"

"Doesn't matter," she grins. "Wherever—let's just go on an adventure."

-8888888-

Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into an abandoned drive through theatre that clearly hasn't seen business since the 80s.

"Is this a good enough adventure?" he says, gesturing vaguely. She kisses his glasses.

"It'll work. C'mon, Fritz," becoming businesslike. "Let's go exploring."

So he follows her out, chuckling and taking hold of her fingers as they look for an open window.

"There's one higher up that might be open," she says, sanding back to examine the wall. "Fritz, give me a lift."

"Ah…"

She makes a face.

"Don't chicken out now, Friedrich; the fun's just starting. C'mon, boost me."

"How am I to get up, then?"

She pauses, considering this.

"Hmmm…ah! Got it! Scrap the whole plan. We can drag those garbage bins over here, turn them over, and get a boost from them."

"If we are put in jail for the breaking and entering, mein Jo, I hope we are not put into the same cell. Heaven only knows the troubles you would devise for me."

She laughs, dragging the heavy bin over the concrete; Friedrich helps her position it near the window.

"There," she says, scambling to the top. (Marmee always said she climbed like a little animal from the moment of her birth.)

Friedrich watches her with an increasing paleness; he rumples his hair.

"Ah…Jo…"

"Hmm?" she calls, doing her best to pull herself up to the window ledge.

"Jo, I….I haf concerns…"

"Don't be such a nanny," she breezes, sneakers scraping against the bricks. "Unh….just another second…"

But then her fingers slip, and before she can quite get a grip on things she's sliding back and then down and Friedrich is making some wild, panicked noise and she's lying breathless on op of him, having quite knocked him to the ground.

"Shit," she breathes, carefully sitting up. "Shit—Fritz...Fritz, are you alright?"

"Agh," he murmurs, moving gingerly. "I—I am well."

"Are you sure?" she flutters, checking his face and neck for bruises. "Friedrich, I'm so so sorry…"

"Jo…"

"Honestly, I should have known it was an awful idea…what was I _thinking_ …."

"Jo—I—I…"

"Scold me something awful," she says, brushing dust out of his hair. "Say you knew this was an awful idea from the first. Say you can't handle me."

"I—I—I love you."

She sits bolt upright, gawking at him. He doesn't appear to have sustained any head injuries.

"Wh—what?"

"I love you," he breathes, looking quite as startled by the idea as she is. "I—I haf never met someone like you. I love you."

"Oh," she says stupidly. "Oh—alright. Are you alright?"

"Yes," he chuckles, sitting up. "I am well. Are you alright, mein?"

"Oh, yeah," she breathes, starstruck. "Yeah, I'm…I'm…"

But she can't say what she is—there isn't a _word_ for what she is—and so she grabs his face and kisses him fiercely, mumbling "I love you too" into his mouth and hoping he can piece the rest together.

It's just been one of those nights.


	7. I Almost Do

I ALMOST DO

 _Every time I don't, I almost do._

A year after Beth's funeral, she moves back to New York; as she explains to Marmee, she just wants to make money to keep the family out of the poorhouse.

Of course, as soon as Mrs. Kirk hears of this (and Mrs. Kirk hears of everything), she insists Jo take her old room and everything "could be just like before." So, situations being what they are (bad) and funds being what _they_ are (low), she doesn't have much choice; within a week, she's sitting in her little room on the 3rd floor, looking despondently at the pile of boxes and wondering what exactly she's gotten herself into.

(She almost asked Mrs. Kirk on the way upstairs if _he_ was still there, but she choked at the last minute and thought better of it.)

"Is everything going alright, Jo, dear?"

Mrs. Kirk bustles in, as comfortable and busy and cheerful as ever; Jo tries to smile.

"Yes, definitely. Thanks, Mrs. Kirk."

"Of course, dear. If you need anything, you just holler, okay? And don't forget about dinner tonight; I've got a good roast cooking, and you look a little peaky."

"I won't forget. Thanks."

"Anytime—oh! Professor! There you are!"

(She almost screams.)

"I was just talking to Josephine and making sure everything was all right with her. She's come back, you know."

It seems apparent by the silence on the Professor's part that he did _not_ know; it takes a moment before he says, a little shakily:

"Ah. So Mees Marsch is…returned?"

"Yes, indeed—here, she's sitting in her room nearly drowning in boxes, poor dear. Do you think you could lend a hand, Professor?"

"Of course," comes that funny, grave voice. (She almost unravels all over again.) "Yes…yes, gif me just a moment."

And then he's there at the doorway, and she's there on her bed, and both of them are looking at each other with something that might be panic.

"Ah," he says, a little breathlessly. "M-mees Marsch. I—I haf much sorrow for your loss."

"Oh," she stammers, her heart slamming in her ears. "Th-thank you, Professor."

(She almost calls him Friedrich, but at the last minute she remembers how dangerous that would be.)

"Of course. You—you are needing help with the unpacking?"

"No," she breathes, almost rudely. "No—Mrs. Kirk, I-I can handle it. Don't—don't let's bother the Professor."

"Jo, don't be silly! It'll take years for you to unpack all that. Let the Professor help; he doesn't mind!"

This is indisputable; the Professor evidently does _not_ mind, for within a moment he's unpacking a box of clothes, carefully folding each article with a grave expression.

She can see that something will have to be done—and quickly.

"I-I really couldn't bother the Professor like this…" she says, as firmly as she can. But he looks at her and says quietly:

"I haf need of a little bothering every so often, Mees Marsch. I am too often left to books and quiet; I haf need of noise and freshness."

There's no reason for her pulse to hammer vigorously against her wrist, her fingers…but it does. She can only manage a weak little laugh.

"There. That's settled," says Mrs. Kirk placidly. "Now I've got to check on the roast, dears, but if you need anything, I'm in the kitchen, alright?"

So she's gone, bustling down the steps and leaving Jo with the last person in the world she wants to talk to.

"Where do you want these?" says Friedrich quietly, pointing to a box of books. She looks wildly around the room (she's going to jump out the window before long), gesturing desperately toward the windowsill.

"There—there's fine, Friedrich."

(She almost asks him if he's read anything smashing lately, but the words die in her throat.)

"Das ist gut," he says absently and commences setting them up at the designated area. Jo takes a deep breath.

"Friedrich—"

"Yes, Jo?"

He looks up, right into her eyes, and she swallows.

(She almost tells him she's sorry, she's so sorry and so stupid…)

"Nothing. I—thanks for the help."

He looks away, inclining his head.

"Think nothing of it, Mees Marsch. It is—how you say—what one does for…for a friend."

The word hovers in the air, and she wonders if it feels as inadequate to him as it does to her.

(She almost asks.)

They work in silence, carefully staying at least a box away from each other, and when the last one's done he stands up, bowing slightly.

"I haf papers to grade," he says quietly, not looking at her. "I-If you haf need of anything, Mees Marsch…"

(She almost tells him to for heaven's sake call her Jo—but then she remembers.)

"Thank you, Professor," she replies, carefully closing a box. "I-I will."

(She won't.)

"I will be seeing you then, Mees Marsch."

"Yeah," she echoes, sounding hollow even to herself. "I-I'll see you."

And so he goes, and the door's closing behind him, and she almost almost almost asked him to stay.


	8. We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together

WE ARE NEVER EVER GETTING BACK TOGETHER

 _I used to think that we were forever, ever…_

One of the hardest things about moving back to New York is reestablishing boundaries.

She has to rebuild her relationship with the woman on the first floor who is very sensitive to noise and " _does_ hate clamor" and can't handle the sound of young people taking the stairs two at a time.

She has to re-establish rapport with the young man who delivers the mail and who is clearly curious about where she's been for the past nine months (not to mention why that funny Professor fellow's been so down lately.)

She has to reconnect with the brusque, smoking man who publishes her column in the paper and who is not altogether certain he can find her another space. (She knows him, and she knows he will.)

She has to make small talk with Mrs. Kirk and make a plausible story for the neighbors and make paper airplanes for the little boys down the street—and hardest of all, she has to make conversation with Friedrich.

"Hullo, Professor," she says one morning as she passes him on the steps. He stiffens—looks at her with a swiftly rising flush on his cheeks.

"Mees Marsch," he says, bowing clumsily. "G—good morning."

She nods—tries to think of something else (anything else) to say.

"N-nice weather," she mumbles. He nods.

"So," he agrees. Neither of them look at each other.

"I-I'll see you around," she says—and then takes the stairs at a reckless gallop, escaping with all possible speed to her room.

-888888-

"Oh! Fried—Professor."

He smiles uncertainly from the doorway of the kitchen.

"I—I make the apologies, Mees Marsch. I-I haf need of some hot water for coffee."

"Oh—no, don't apologize. I-I don't mind."

He nods, and she smiles—and they each resume the careful business of pretending the other doesn't exist.

Friedrich sets a pot on the stove and clears his throat.

"Mees Marsch…Jo…"

Jo closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and doesn't move.

"Yes?"

 _Don't…don't, Friedrich, please don't…_

"I—I haf something I must speak of…with you."

Her heart thuds, cold and uncomfortable, against her ribs.

"Friedrich…"

"Jo," he says, and his voice is faster now, almost breathless. "I—I know it is—it is not good to ask, but I—I…"

"Please don't," she says quickly, blinking hard. He puts a hand on her arm.

"Jo…"

"I just—Friedrich, please. It's not going to work—I just—I just can't right now."

His hand drops; she swallows and tries to stifle the voice in her head telling her she's a horrible person.

"Ah," he says, nodding and looking at the wall. "I—forgive me, Jo. I—I haf not always much prudence."

And then, taking a breath:

"But I love you, Mees Marsch. That has not changed. And, if you are ever willing…I am."

Her vision blurs; she tries to keep her voice steady.

"I—I can't," she says, turning to him. "I—I just can't! Friedrich, it just—it hurt so much the first time, I…I…"

He nods—lets out a breath like he knew this was coming.

"I am a foolish old man," he says, digging in his pocket and pulling out his handkerchief. "Here, pay me no attention, Mees Marsch. I haf been inconsiderate. Do not cry, I beg you."

And he presses it on her, ignoring her protests that she's fine, she really is.

"Th-thanks, Friedrich."

So he goes, telling her to keep the handkerchief (she won't), and she's left making a cup of tea and wondering if she made the right decision after all.


	9. Stay, Stay, Stay

STAY, STAY, STAY

 _I think that it's best if we both stay._

At 1:58, his conscience starts to get the better of him.

"Jo, I haf to be going…"

She reaches out, grabbing hold of his coat and murmuring:

"No…not yet, Friedrich…just a little bit longer…"

He chuckles, sinking back beside her; she snuggles into the crook of his arm.

"You are going to get me in much trouble, mein Jo."

"Don't be such an old woman," she murmurs, nuzzling his side. "'s gonna be fine."

He stretches, one arm under his head as the other hand strokes her back, tracing her sides.

"When will I be going, then?" he asks softly. She frowns at the thought.

"Never."

His heart stammers a little, and she smirks against his coat.

"I think Mees Kirk would notice if my bed was not slept in," he says after a moment.

"And? So she thinks we're having mindblowing sex. I can handle that."

He shakes his head (she can feel him flushing a little in the dark), kissing her hair.

"Do not tempt me, Jo," he murmurs. "Even old men haf their weaknesses."

She snorts.

"I told you, you dolt: 40's the prime of life. And anyway," settling her head more comfortably on his shoulder, "what do you care what Mrs. Kirk thinks? We're not actually going to do anything, so you can be comfortable in the knowledge that you've kept my virtue intact."

"It has not been the easy job," he says, and she can feel him smiling. "But that is so. I haf concerns, however, that there will be talk—I do not want you compromised, mein Jo."

She laughs, waking up a little and lazily toying with his hair.

"That's noble of you, Fritz. I appreciate you fighting for my honor."

He kisses her forehead.

"It is my pleasure, Professorin."

She smiles.

"I like that," she says. "'Professorin.'"

"I haf hope that one day, I may call thee that in earnest," he says, voice almost a whisper. Jo tries not too blush too obviously against the dark.

"Do you say that to every girl you date, Professor?"

Friedrich chuckles, pulling her closer to him.

"Yes," he says, speaking in her ear. "Every single one, heart's dearest."

And then, becoming more serious:

"I haf not dated since I was a young man, mein. And I had not—ah—such seriousness about the process, if you understand."

She snorts.

"So you were a callous womanizer, leaving a trail of broken hearts in your wake?"

He laughs, shaking his head.

"Not quite. I only courted one woman—but she was not like you, and I had not—how you say—the serious intents I have now."

Her heart stutters audibly; they both lie there for a moment, thinking.

"I really should go," he says, making to get up. She lets out a little whine.

"No…don't."

He sighs, trying to be stern.

"What am I to do here, Mees Marsch?" he asks in what she calls his most 'Professor' voice. "I remain, and you tease me with ridiculous questions. I make to go, and you complain. You tease and you plague and you drive me to—what is the phrase—distraction. I am at my wits' end. What is a solution?"

Jo considers it, making sure to firmly curled against him in the process.

"Simple," she says at last, quite decisively. "Stay."

And he does.


	10. The Last Time

THE LAST TIME

 _This is the last time I let you in._

She can only tell herself that this is the last time.

After this, she'll harden up and treat him with only the most polite civility. After this, she'll never blush or stammer in front of him again and she won't ever cry into her morning tea. After this, she'll call him "Professor" (not Friedrich), and she won't think about what happened before. After this, she'll treat him as a mere acquaintance, and the world will gradually right itself.

This is the last time.

"Jo," he murmurs, pulling her in, stroking her back. "Heart's dearest, don't cry. I beg you."

"Sorry," she mumbles, holding onto him. He shakes his head.

"No, do not make the apologies. It has not been the good year for you."

"No," she agrees, choking on a sob. "It—it hasn't."

She holds him tighter, shaking and hating herself—this isn't supposed to be happening. None of this is. She wasn't supposed to break down (it feels like the tenth time this week) over her breakfast bagel, and he wasn't supposed to wander absently into the kitchen and find her bent over the counter, shoulders trembling. He wasn't supposed to say "Jo…mein, what is the trouble?" in that quiet, tender way that made it impossible for her to straighten up and pass it off as a momentary fit. She definitely wasn't supposed to shake her head and sob harder, still faced away from him, and he absolutely wasn't supposed to put his hand on her shoulder and say, softer still:

"Jo, please tell me. Do not hold the troubles all alone."

And she wasn't (wasn't wasn't wasn't) supposed to turn to tell him to please go but then, catching sight of his face, bury her face in his chest and cry.

"What is the trouble?" he murmurs, pushing the hair back from her face. She shakes her head.

"I just—I just—I hate it, Friedrich, I-I hate it so much…"

He doesn't ask what she hates; he knows. (She'll bet everything she has that he hates it, too.)

"I know," he says, stroking her back slowly, rhythmically. "I know, mein. It is not ideal, so?"

She nods.

"So," she whispers.

"It has been so long without you, Jo," he says softly. "I—I know it is foolish to say, but I—I haf long had you in my heart."

"I-I missed you, too," she says, fighting herself every step of the way. (This is the last time, absolutely the last time.) "Friedrich, I—I'm such a ninny. I've been trying so hard to forget it…and I can't."

He doesn't say anything for a moment; he only rubs her back, letting her cry it all out. Finally, he says:

"I am a very selfish being, Jo."

She sniffs; it's mortifying.

"Wh-why?"

He sighs.

"Because," he says. "I haf so much pleasure just now in the thinking that you could not forget me."

Her innards contract painfully at the sincerity in his voice; she holds him tighter, wanting to savor every moment, every touch, every sensation. (His coat, his heartbeat, his voice vibrating against her temples).

She takes in every single second—because it's not ever going to happen again.

This is the last time.


	11. Holy Ground

HOLY GROUND

 _I don't wanna dance if I'm not dancing with you_

It's hard sometimes not to remember.

She passes by coffee shops sometimes and she can hardly help herself; it's so easy, so forceful, so _clear_ to see the two of them sitting by the window, laughing at people and reading Goethe. (He loved to hear her struggle with the German version.) She finds that it's harder to just sit in a coffee shop and enjoy the aloneness; her mind keeps interrupting her. The same thing applies to book shops, particularly tiny, dusty, rink-a-dink little second-hand bookshops with faded, lurid paperbacks from the 60s and water-stained editions of Jane Austen and Dickens; it's harder now to enjoy them alone, now that she knows what it's like to enjoy them with him.

The collection of Shakespeare he gave her remains untouched; she's, deep down, terribly afraid of opening it. (What if it smells like him?)

Old, beat up cars from the 70s with patchy seats put a lump in her throat—and she used to love them, loved their bulky ungracefulness.

She doesn't like to watch certain movies anymore; it's very hard to watch the old serialization of _Pickwick_ without remembering how they marathoned it on his raggedy sofa.

So she goes to work and writes her column and chats with Mrs. Kirk and reads a careful selection of books (nothing too familiar). So she sits in her room and makes coffee and writes. So she goes through the motions, remembering.

-88888888-

He finds that there are certain things—ach, so many things!—that have painful undertones for him now.

There is, for example, the smell of black coffee—something he once found rather pleasant, he remembers. Not so now. It is difficult—it is impossible—to smell that acrid richness without thinking of _her_ and her late nights and her early mornings and her eternal piles of writing, all accompanied with a chipped mug of black coffee.

So he avoids coffee—he drinks strictly tea now for caffeine, and only the kinds he's never seen on her desk.

There is also the cold sharp weather, which he once found very grand and imposing—now, it is only the weather that _she_ liked so, and it is only the weather which brought that wild autumn flush to her thin brown face. On cold days, he stays inside; on cold days, he cranks the rickety heater up as far as it will go in his car to block out even the mere memory of the cold clean air.

Then there's Dickens—and suspense novels—and banana nut muffins—and black berets—and the sound of old printers stalling—and Tchaikovsky's _Marche Slave._ (How can he hear it now without thinking of how she would blare it during the cold mornings when she dressed?)

There's white Honda Civics with dull gray interiors and russet apples and tartan shirts and long, long hair.

There's sharp grey eyes and rainstorms and Ayn Rand. ("Jehosephat, Fritz! Someone actually _believes_ this tosh!")

There's scratchy, impatient handwriting and battered Converse and crooked pink mouths—and he watches the world contract around him.

So he goes through the motions, remembering.


	12. Sad Beautiful Tragic

SAD BEAUTIFUL TRAGIC

 _What a sad, beautiful, tragic love affair…_

Without question, his least favorite thing about these recent developments is the number of times he has lain in bed, listening to the unmistakable sound of Jo ( _his_ Jo, ach, his Jo still) crying.

It is hard—it is very hard—to lay there like the imbecile, like the cad, and do nothing—but something tells him it is better this way. Something tells him that Jo would not care (for she is so rough and so proud) for his intruding on this, even after that wonderful awkwardness of a week ago. (She still has not brought it up, and he senses that it was what the Americans call a one-time deal.)

So he lies there, aching.

A lot of the time, the crying is about her sister—and this aches, too, for she is too young to have such old troubles. But sometimes it isn't, and he hears his name amidst the sobs, and it takes all his will not to take the stairs two at a time and hold her as tight as he can.

So he lies there and aches and reins himself in—until one night when he does not.

Until one night when he gets up in a wild impulse and creeps downstairs and knocks—he is the fool, he is the old fool all over again—at her door very softly.

The crying stops with a jolt; there's a pause, and then the door opens and there is Jo, puffy-eyed and pink-nosed and evidently trying to look like she had not been crying.

"Oh," she mumbles, not looking him in the eye. "S-sorry, Fried—Professor. Have I been keeping you up?"

"Yes," he says, hurting too much to be tactful. "Jo, I—I cannot bear to hear you like this. Please—I beg you—let me do something to help you."

"It's fine," she says—but they both know it is not fine, and she reluctantly lets him into her room. (It's as much of a mess as ever, and his heart thunks against his ribs at the thought.)

He sits on the bed, trying not to be the meddling old fool.

"Jo," he says. (Her name is in his mouth again, and it is so good.) "I—please tell me what I can do. I cannot do nothing."

She sits a careful distance away from him on the bed.

"I-I don't know, Friedrich," she says at last. "I-I don't know if there's anything."

"I will be anything," he says staunchly. "The listening ear, the crying shoulder—consider me yours."

(Ach, that last sentence was dangerous, but he does not care, he does not care…)

She smiles—just a little and just for a moment.

"I just—I just want it to stop hurting," she whispers. She pulls her knees up to her chin. "Friedrich, it's…it's been nearly a year."

He nods; he knows. It has been the longest eleven months of his life.

"It has," he says at last. "And you—you haf not been able to forget?"

She shakes her head.

"N-no," she says. "I haven't. And I want to more than—more than anything else."

He just sits there, his hand on her shaking shoulders.

"I know," he says at last. "It is not easy, the memories."

She nods, sobbing again—murmurs, at last:

"P-please go, Fritz. I-I can't….not with you here."

He stops—takes a breath. He should have known—them together is not a good idea.

"Very well, Jo," he says softly. "I-I hope it goes better for thee."

So he's gone, kissing her lightly on the head and walking heavily up the stairs, trying not to think.


	13. The Lucky One

AN: Hello, sorry about the delay here! Finals and Christmas prep have kept me enormously busy, but I've finally got some time to post some more! Thanks so much in advance, and reviews are VASTLY appreciated!

THE LUCKY ONE

 _All the young things line up to take your place._

He has taken a definite dislike to the young man who lives next door.

He is a forgetful one, this man—he is always forgetting something. His pen, his book, his coat—it is always something. And, of course, the retrieval of these items always requires several minutes of chatting with Mees Marsch…

Once, he walked in on them in the kitchen, and he did not at all care for the way he looked at her.

"Oh, yeah, she's quite something," he heard him say casually to a friend as he (Fritz) was passing. "Legs for miles, y'know, and all that hair. Really kind of a knock-out in the right lighting."

(He had to stuff his fists firmly in his pockets and force himself to walk quietly on.)

"So," he says once, when he and Jo both happen to be in the kitchen at the same time. "I uh—I see you are making friends?"

Jo stops looking brooding and pensive for a moment and shrugs.

"Yeah—y'know, just being friendly."

(He does not say it, but friendship appears to be the last thing on the young man's mind.)

"Ah," he says. "So. He is, ah—very ah…"

"He's enormously clever," says Jo in a very flat, grey voice that isn't anything like her. "He's read a lot of Kafka, and he's working on a novel about how there's no such thing as free will. I guess he'll be quite famous soon enough."

He never realized until this moment what a raw hatred he had for both Kafka and determinism.

"Ah," he says again. "Well. It is—lucky, then, that you haf these insights now."

Jo smiles a little; her eyes remain brooding.

"Yes," she replies, and he doesn't at all like her voice. "I guess I'm just the lucky one."


	14. Everything Has Changed

EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED

 _Your eyes looked like coming home._

The first night they went on an outing (just the two of them), they end up at a coffee shop.

"So," he says, slipping into the chair across from her. "Mees Marsch…"

"Jo," she grins; he has dark gray eyes, and they're astonishingly warm. He makes an impatient gesture, chuckling.

"So—I make the blunder, I see. Mees Marsch is too formal for you, so?"

"Far too formal," she says. "I'm certainly not going to call you 'Professor Bhaer,' am I?"

He smiles.

"That is so," he acknowledges. "That would discompose me greatly. But here—I haf questions to ask you, Jo. I had prepared a list, you see," affecting to look very pompous, "so that we may not lack conversation."

She laughs.

"That was very considerate of you, Professor. Heaven knows I was worried about making it through an hour of your stultifying company."

He leans back in his chair, laughing and looking at her with crinkled eyes (her stomach flutters, and she wants to scold herself).

"Good," he says at last, grinning frankly. "I will begin, then."

And, with a great deal of pomp and circumstance, he extracts from his pocket a battered index card and proceeds to read.

"So, Jo—what exactly do you think of this new fad I am hearing of? It is—prut, I cannot read my own writing—ah! It is called, ah… 'netflix and chill?' I am thinking it is a new dating craze—I haf heard it many times amongst the students. I had no idea the cinema was still so popular in America, by the way."

Jo fights to keep a straight face.

"That's—that's not quite what that means, Friedrich."

He pauses, knitting his eyebrows.

"No?"

"Not exactly. I wouldn't advise using it on someone you hope to keep around in the long run."

He almost smiles.

"Like you, for example?"

(She is _not_ blushing—she absolutely is _not._ )

"Um—oh. Uh…sure."

"So," he says, a little pink himself. "Tell me, then, Jo—what is the meaning of the phrase? How do you 'netflix and chill?'"

-8888888-

An hour later, she's trying very hard to convince herself that this isn't a big deal.

"Oh, you haven't seen Star Wars?" she hears herself saying in laughing disbelief. "Good God, Friedrich. It's _such_ a good series—you have to see it."

"Perhaps we could marathon it," he says, looking at her in a way that makes her flush up to the tips of her ears. And then, with a little grin:

"We could—ah—netflix and chill it, so?"

She throws a napkin at him.

When two hours have gone by, the baristas are sweeping the floor and giving them pointed looks.

"I am thinking we haf overstayed our welcome," he says. "They are closing in just a minute—let me take you home."

"Very generous of you," she quips, "considering we live in the same building."

He chuckles.

"Yes, I haf the giving nature."

They walk out into the windy purple night, and he opens her door for her, ignoring her protests, and all the way into the building and up the steps (him next to her all the while), all she knows is that she's never had a date (it was a date, right?) like this and all she knows is his coat is brushing her arm and it's electric and all she knows is she doesn't want him to go and she's not anything like she was waking up this morning.

All she knows is everything has changed.


	15. Starlight

STARLIGHT

 _Don't you dream impossible things?_

"Do you know," he says softly one night in the middle of a fairly terrible Valentine's Day party. "I haf been thinking—this living here, it would be cheaper if we were married. Then we could have the one room."

She laughs, trying to ignore the way her heart's going wild against her ribs.

"That's very economical of you, Fritz," she grins, leaning against his shoulder. He slips an arm around her.

"Ah," he says, almost gravely. "So. I am a practical man, mein Jo."

"Why don't we just share the one room without getting married, if you're so practical?" she teases, tiptoeing her fingers up his arm, his shoulder. Friedrich coughs violently, cheeks turning brilliant scarlet; the solution has clearly never occurred to him.

"Agh…Jo, I…I uh…"

She laughs, fiddling with his glasses.

"Only joking, Fritz. I wasn't suggesting we fornicate—unless you really want to," waggling her eyebrows at him. He looks hard at his lap, swallowing.

"I…Jo, I…I do not…"

She slips her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek.

"You're so cute," she murmurs. "Don't worry, Fritz; we'll keep our virtues intact."

"You overestimate my self-control, Professorin," he murmurs, swallowing again. "I…I haf not the appropriate thoughts for an old man."

(For a moment, she wishes very ardently that they _were_ married so that she could show him just how young and attractive he really is.)

"So," she says, deciding to change the subject; he does look so exquisitely uncomfortable. "Fritz…if we get married, we should definitely do it soon. My rent's due in a week."

He chuckles.

"Mine also, Jo. I will see if I can find a church which will marry us this week. But the bed—I ah—" (his neck was warming rapidly) "I am curious as to whether we would fit."

She smirks.

"I think we'd manage."

And then, becoming more businesslike:

"And if not, we can always just kip on the floor. I think Marmee gave me an extra mattress when I left."

He chuckles.

"Ah—that is an idea also. Perhaps we could get a cat, so? I know you haf the liking for them."

Jo laughs, looking up at him and tracing his hairline idly with one finger.

"Yeah, let's start a family of cats—can you imagine? Kittens running wild all over."

"Ah—I do not see Mees Kirk uh—how to say—cottoning on to that idea."

Jo snorts, admitting it.

"True—we should do it, though. That'd be awesome. Me, you, and a ton of cats…"

Friedrich laughs, pulling her closer—and, absurd as the whole thing is, she can't help but feel, snuggling into him, that it _might_ happen—it _could_ happen—and that's enough for her.


	16. Begin Again

Note: This is the last chapter for this story; I'm not covering the three bonus songs on the album because A. they don't fit well at all with Jo and Fritz and B. I figured this was the best, brightest, ,most accurate way to end what's been a pretty angsty collection of drabbles. Thanks to everyone who read, and thanks thanks thanks to everyone who reviewed. I can't get better if you don't. Enjoy!

BEGIN AGAIN

 _But on a Wednesday, in a café, I watched it begin again._

They decide, a year and a month after she leaves, to try—just once more.

That is, they make tentative arrangements to meet in a coffee shop just "to chat." So she brushes out her hair—it's been looking a little ratty of late—and puts on one of her many, many sweatshirts and walks across the chilly street to the coffee shop. He's already there; he raises a hand halfway—pauses. His mouth turns up uncertainly on the side.

"Hey, Friedrich," she says, waving mechanically. She finds herself walking to sit at his table; she sits down, nearly upsetting the chair in the process.

"Jo," he says, getting up and helping her right the damn thing. His hand brushes hers, and she swallows—even after all this time. Son of a bitch.

They sit, looking at each other.

"Jo, I—I am so glad you agreed to do this," he says, swallowing like he's trying to push back the rest of what he wants to say. "I…we haf not…"

"I know," she says, and she reaches across the table in one mad movement and puts her on top of his. His mouth falls slightly open; she can feel herself going very hot in the face.

"I…I just thought maybe we could…try to…y'know…interact again."

(She sounds like an idiot.)

"Yes," he says, not even seeming to notice how stupid she sounds. "Yes…I…I would like that. I haf not had a…ah…friend like you ever in my life, Jo."

She smiles, and she can too it's of the messy, mortifying variety.

"Same here. I-I missed you, Friedrich."

"I missed you also, my Jo. You—you haf no idea."

(She thinks she does.)

"So," he says, now grinning all over his face. "Haf you uh…haf you been reading anything of note lately?"

-88888888-

An hour later, she's neck deep in a discussion with him about Thomas Pynchon ("I cannot think, Jo, of a single kind thing to say of his work,") when she realizes: it's alright. The gnawing pit in her chest in gone, left without a scar. She makes some light remark about how they should go see the film _Infinite Vice_ , and she wants to dance around the room at the familiar way his nose wrinkles in a laughing disgust.

(Her hand, by the way, is still lying quite casually on his.)

"I haf been reading Schopenhauer," he says, chuckling as she makes a face. "It has not, I admit, improved much since my last reading of it."

"He always looks like such a sourpatch," she tells him, grimacing. "I've never seen anyone look so damn unpleasant."

Friedrich grins.

"Ach—well, his worldview did not leave him much to be pleasant about, Jo."

"That's true enough. The whole lot of them are like that—Hegel, Kant, Nietzsche, all of the German ones, come to think it. What on earth is going on in your country, Friedrich, that makes people so sour?"

He laughs, tipping his head back; she hasn't seen him do that in so, so long.

"It is so good to see you again, mein Jo," he says simply. (He must be too happy and careless to notice the 'mein;' her heart flutters.)

"It's good to see you, too, Fritz," she says, and she squeezes his hand and somehow everything is tacitly understood. It's all over: they had a crash landing, but it's okay now.

They had a breaking, burning, dynamite end, but damned if they aren't going to begin again.


	17. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 **AN:** So I got some requests for a more definite happier ending and I thought 'why not?' It doesn't go with any particular song, but I included quotes from a couple different ones on the album. As requested, here's your happy ending! Enjoy and please review!

 _Ooh, ooh, we could get married, have ten kids and teach 'em how to dream…_

Mrs. Kirk, of course, goes into Maximum Overdrive at the news.

"Marriage!" she cries, dropping her dish towel. "Oh, good Lord! Jo, I-I never thought…I mean, of course I always thought you did wonders for the Professor, but…oh, my, my! Two tenants getting married—imagine that!"

Jo laughs.

"You can't be more surprised than I am, Mrs. Kirk. I never thought Fritz would have me. I'm sure he'll be back in a few months, begging for his old room back and a bit of the quiet life."

"Ach, I haf no doubt of that myself," chuckles Fritz, walking in and slipping his arm around her. "I will be a much older man before long, Mees Kirk."

"So you _are_ moving, then?" asks Mrs. Kirk, sitting down at the table with a starstruck expression. "Good Lord—marriage. What an idea."

"So," assents Fritz, squeezing Jo's waist. "Jo's aunt has been kind enough to leave us her old house—we will be there. I do not haf much faith in two people contained in an apartment room—particularly when one is Jo."

(She pinches him.)

"Yes, of course," murmurs Mrs. Kirk, rather mechanically. "But my word—when was it all decided?"

"Yesterday morning," says Friedrich, not bothering to hide his grin. "I haf the timing—I waited until Jo had had her coffee."

"Yes," laughs Jo, "otherwise who knows what I might have said?"

"Well," Mrs. Kirk says, obviously looking for a handle on the situation. "This is all so…Jo, I really…oh, my! Jo and the Professor getting married—imagine that!"

"That went well, I am thinking," he murmurs as they make their way back up the steps. Jo grins, turning and trapping him against the banister.

"We think alike, Professor," she says lightly, letting her fingertips make their way up his neck and into his hair. "And really, after all the bullshit we've been through, I think it's about time something went well."

He swallows; she can hear his pulse pick up.

"So," he murmurs. "I ah…I…I am so glad you gave us a second chance, mein Jo. I like not my life without you."

She grins, standing on her tiptoes to reach his mouth.

"I hope you're sure about that, Professor. Because soon there won't be any getting rid of me."

He chuckles a little shakily, his hands findind her waist, pulling her hair out of its makeshift bun. There's a minute or so when they're both too busy to speak.

"Ach," he murmurs at last against her mouth. "Do not raise my hopes so, Jo."

 _I'd like to hang out with you for my whole life…_


End file.
